Old Time's Sake
by Hel-Lokisdotter
Summary: From 1898 to 2011, two sets of letters pertaining to one Jack Harkness... and the troubles he brings along with him. Post- and pre- canon, Jack/Constantine... well, Jack/everyone, really. With lots of shoutouts to other fandoms.
1. Happy Bloody New Year

**To: **hob_goblin**  
From:** John Constantine**  
****Sent:** 01/01/2011 11:23**  
Subject:** Happy New Year! And here's a new mystery for 2011…

* * *

Okay. First off, happy New Year. Let's get to the social bit first, yeah? Down a drink for me and all that. Celebrate another year of the world not ending.

Suitably pissed yet, you sodden old bugger? Right. Let's get onto business.

So I'm at this party last night, right? Seeing the New Year in, Auld Lang Syne and all that shit. I mean, I wasn't much in the mood for it – bit too many memories to do anything for old time's sake, but then, I don't have to tell _you_ that, do I? Still, sometimes you just need to let it go a bit and go down on the piss, and Chas and the lads were on the way out, anyway. I get a ring off him at half six, got him half-dragging me out the door by seven. They don't give up, that lot. Proper mates, even after all the shit I've put them through.  
Anyway, like I was saying, they got me out there. Didn't really want to go, after all that shit with the Kraken (you know, that stuff I mentioned last time?) but sometimes you've just got to go with the flow. So I end up in the Northampton, pissed off my arse and halfway off the barstool, when up comes this guy. Looks about the same age as us – not that that means much, you know, what with us being who we are. About thirty or forty, anyway. Brown hair, pretty tall, good coat (but not as good as mine!), American accent. Bit of a looker, really, which is just as well, really, 'cos the minute I see him, I know he's on the prowl. You know that look people get, when they're just deciding who to eye up first? Yeah, that's the look he's got.  
And I suppose he must've decided on me, 'cos a minute later, he's over there with me, and wham bam, I'm in like Flynn. Sort of. Got a G+T out of him, and we got talking.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, John, did you _really_ email me for the first time in three weeks to boast about your conquests? Well, yeah, what _else_ am I going to do with my time and valuable internet-café-ing money, if not rub it in your face that my life might suck, but at least _I_ can get laid? (Just kidding, mate. How's Alice getting on?)  
But seriously. I'm writing 'cos in all the chatting (and chatting _up_, and believe you me, this bloke's _never_ heard of subtlety) there were a few things that just stuck out like sore thumbs. Thought you might be interested.

I'll start at the beginning, yeah? I'm getting ahead of myself again.

So we're drinking, he's talking, I'm listening. Says his name's Jack. Captain Jack Harkness – you know that name? I dunno, just thought you might. Doesn't talk much about himself anyway, this bloke, or ask too many questions – fine by me, 'cos I don't want to answer them. Somehow, we got onto the origins of fucking _New Year's_, instead, and I mean, I'm pretty flat-out pissed by now, so I'm not all that fussed if he thinks I'm a nutter. I think I mentioned at one point that I'd met a song. You know, standard drunken truth-telling.  
And we're pretty much finished the second round (all on him - I'm telling you, this one's a keeper!) by the time he actually asks me my fucking _name_. Okay, so he might've before, when I was busy trying to light up without Bill seeing, but…  
Anyway, point is, when I tell him – and I mean, we're both plastered by this point, so don't quote me on this, okay? – he just sort of goes all grey and shocked-looking, just for a moment, and I'm thinking, God, this is either demonic possession or a fucking _heart attack_, and then he just sort of snaps out of it. And I ask him what the hell that was about – amazing how fear for your immortal soul sobers you up, innit? – and he just shrugs and says he knew a Constantine once, that's all, Jacob Constantine, not a very common name is it, so, about that song…

I don't know. Reckon it could be nothing – you know, if you hang around up Liverpool way long enough, you've got yourself a whole bushel of Constantines to pick from – but still, there's that shock thing. Gave me a bit of a turn, that. I mean, call me a paranoid old bastard, but when someone acts like that, I damn well want a reason.

The other thing is, this guy's got this kind of… bracelet thing, I suppose. Leather. Looks like something HG Wells might've written about on speed. Thought it looked familiar for a bit, but I reckon I'm making that up. The obvious conclusion (god, how I hate what my _obvious conclusions_ are!) is charmed bracelet, but you know, they tend not to be that mechanical-looking…

There was a weirder bit, though. _Way_ weirder. I'll get onto it into a minute.

Anyway, yeah. Awkward creepy moment avoided, we're back onto knocking back gin and stout and generally having a good time. Makes a nice change from the sushi dinners I've been craving since the whole Kraken thing. Much more _me_, you know? I'm not some fucking gourmet ponce, and god, but beer and gin goes down well for the whole recovery effort.  
And the countdown starts off, and people're counting along and grabbing the party poppers off the bar, and we're all counting down, too. And I mean, he's sat there like there's not a care in the world, and I've sort of got that soft spot for New Year's, what with the still not being dead when they roll around, and we'rejust counting down, and I know I'll have a cracker of a headache in the morning, but I don't much care. (I was right about that, by the way, 'cos as I write this, I'm doped to the gills on aspirin and Rennie's for the indigestion and I _still_ feel like crawling into a hole to die)  
You know that American thing with New Year's kissing? I think it's an American thing. You tell me, you _live_ there. Well, you're probably not going to be that surprised with the next bit of the story, that being the case. Turns out, he's a good kisser – which maybe isn't that big a surprise, either. So we're kissing, and everyone's singing their bloody Auld Lang Syne, and then – seriously, just like that – he jumps right back, and swears, and bolts for the door.

_NO JOKES_. You know damn well my kissing isn't bad enough to get _that_ sort of a response.

And then there were two words I got when he was running for it. One's _Torchwood_. The other's _time_. I mean, there was other shit, too, but those were the ones that stuck out.

That's why I'm writing to you. Torchwood sounds familiar – can't think why, though. Time's something you should know about. And then, of course, there's Jacob Constantine.

See, there's only been the one Jacob Constantine I know of in the last… what, hundred and fifty years? You know the one I'm talking about. So if you could dig up anything on our Jake there, I'd be eternally bloody grateful and might even stand you a drink next time we meet up. That's Jacob Constantine, and Torchwood. Might be the Torchwood stuff's something I've heard from Midnight, even – something from your side of the pond. Explains the accent.

Just… let me know, yeah?

Ta,  
John.

PS – Don't ever mix Rennie's and aspirin. My stomach hurts like blue fuck.


	2. The Thing In The Bathtub

September 19, 1898

My dear Robert,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that the house suits you. I apologise for the mess, and I am sure that, by now, you have found the thing in the bathtub, behind the boarded door, it being of your nature to look into such concerns. _Do not touch it_. I cannot stress enough the importance of this. My heartiest apologies for its presence, as I know well enough that such putrescence is scarcely any man's chosen lodger, and the stench may well, by now, have become unbearable. Still, I implore you not to touch it, and to mind where you walk – the spell is loose enough as it stands, and the state parlous at best. Any movement within that room may break that tenuous hold. Fear not; by the time the year is out, it will have taken in its entirity, and nothing should be left but the smell, which may be best remedied by salts or suchlike. And I implore you, as you are my friend, do _not_ mention the room to any man but myself and Capt. Walton. There are those who would seek such as that chamber contains.

With that business aside, let us speak of more sociable matters. It seems an age since last we spoke, though I know, of course, that I only left London two days ago. Forgive me, Robert, if I begin to babble on at length on subjects of little importance; the weather is not dull so much as black, and the instant I step outside, the rain is bound to drench me to the very core. The longer I spend labouring over this letter, the longer I can put off the moment when Edwin drags me out into it… though, of course, it is no great hardship to write, for I have much to say, and I am always glad for a sympathetic ear.

I write this from the free house I spoke of, on the fringes of Bristol. It is my intention to remain in the city to-morrow, and perhaps a few days thereafter. You may write to me at the Coach House, on Westland Rd., if you so wish; on Friday next, I shall board the train to Cardiff, and leave a forwarding address with Mrs. Ward, the estimable landlady of this place. More than that, it is scarcely safe to say, with such a dogged tail as that which still seeks me after the Calibraxis incident. You warned me against involvement, and indeed, I fear you may have been right to do so. After all, I was scarcely strong enough to change events, yet – well, I believe to this day that you understand, and if you do not, I beg you not to break my state of happy ignorance.

God! but this will hang over me for a long time yet, Robert.

I know that you have expressed concerns for my decision not to return to Liverpool, but I am certain that you understand my reasoning. Do not think me martyred (or, at least, unnecessarily so!) when I tell you that I am ill-inclined to lead my troubles to Christopher and his wife; all higher feelings aside, you know fine well that he would butcher me were ill to befall Elizabeth. Besides, there is a certain call to pastures new, as I know you are aware.

I enclose a postcard of the city, although that is, of course, purely for my own amusement. I know well enough how long you lived not far from here, after all, but I do not doubt that, since then, it has much changed. Let me assure you that it remains, however, as much a pit of deprivation in places as do all cities in our great Empire. That, at least, I doubt will ever change. It is almost a comfort that some things remain constant.

Edwin continues in his apparent belief that I cannot live without more air and exercise. I have told him a thousand times, if I have told him once; if he insists on serving as my valet, he is quite welcome to do so (and, honestly, Robert, did you have to get it into his head that he owes me even that much?) but it hardly gives him any call on my time. I have yet to understand why he chose to follow me out of London in the first place. If you will forgive me my bluntness, Robert (and I do not doubt you will, given how much more you have seen than I of the world), I am rather of the opinion that our Edwin Mathers is "sweet on me," although I would hasten to add that this is _conjuncture only_, and I would appreciate it if you avoided spreading it around. After all, boorish though he may be on occasion, he is undoubtedly a well-meaning young man, and it would be cruel to besmear his reputation so. It may indeed be that he feels so indebted to me as to follow me like this, with purely innocent intentions – but do think on it. I confess, it is a thought which amuses me a little, for he is so _earnest_ in all that he does. He reminds me of a puppy, more than anything, in his earnest adoration – but my god! it can be wearing.

And I must ask another favour of you, Robert, much as I owe you already. There are books which I was forced to leave in the house; dangerous volumes I had no wish to carry here and there throughout the bloody country. They are locked away, as well they should be, but still, they are there. In the cabinet behind the door in my study, there is a key, small and wrought-iron, which I neglected to bring with me. Put it in some safer place, preferably on your person, and do _not_ allow it to be taken from you. Lady Johanna's book is locked away with the rest of them, and I need hardly tell you the implications should Carter get his hands on the damn thing. It is _vital_ that those books be left untouched until I return for them, which I shall, when I have another place for them in whatever house I should happen to find in Cardiff.

You may also be interested in the books in my library. These, at least, are freely at your disposal. I neglected to tell you this before – not least because I rarely bother with them, as you know – but I have, among them, Lady Johanna's account of a meeting with the Wandering Jew (which – ha! – I do not doubt is relevant to your interests) and the diary, or a reputable fascimile thereof, kept by my ancestor, Jack. Of course, Jack was not one of the more erudite Constantines, and so the entire thing is lamentably brief and rife with errors. Still, you might be interested, and, of course, they are yours now. Do let me know if you find anything of interest.

Here, I fear, I must leave you. The skies are clearing to sunlight and the rain has gone to mere showers. I have much to be about before I move on to Cardiff, and Edwin is hammering on my door again. I swear before God, Robert, the man lives to stop me resting even a moment.

I hope to hear from you soon, especially regarding your correspondance with Carter. And remember, _do not touch the thing in the bathtub_.

I wish you every fortune in settling what, I am well aware, is a house that holds the scars of some of my longer experiences, and remain;

Your affectionate friend,  
JACOB CONSTANTINE

PS – Robert, I mean it. Sealing the door again may be the best idea.


End file.
